RuneWarriors (18 page)

Thidrek whirled, now in high dudgeon. “
Sorry
? You don't know the meaning of the word!” He advanced on her, pushing her backward and pinning her against the wall.
“You tried to
poison
me!” With one hand tightened round her throat and his body pressed against hers, he rifled her skirts with his other hand until he found the goatskin bag. He wrenched it free and threw it to the floor. From beneath her belt she drew a dagger and swiftly brought it up to thrust into Thidrek's chest, intending to kill him before he even knew it. But his hand caught hers, stopping the knife inches from his heart.

Thidrek yanked the knife away and slapped her hard across the face—once! twice!—and before she could flee, two guards rushed in and seized her. Thidrek's face was black with fury.

“Lock her up in the tower, the filthy wench! No food! No water! No visitors! And no honeymoon!”

 

Dane tried to sleep, but his mind wouldn't rest. If Astrid had succeeded in slipping the idiot water to Thidrek, wouldn't he have heard something by now? Panicked whispers from the guards? A wild rumor? But nothing had changed. Nothing at all. And now worries of what would happen to Astrid after the wedding went spinning through his head. Sleep was made even more impossible by the fact that Ulf was snoring like an inebriated walrus.

Dane sat at the window, staring through the bars at the stars in the night sky. He remembered Lut's words: “We never lose touch with those we truly love.” Was it true? Oh, he so wanted to believe it. He peered at the two
brightest stars, the same ones he'd seen while lost at sea, and closing his eyes, he soon found himself praying and pouring out his soul—to his father, to the gods, to whoever might be listening at this late hour. And then, wonder of wonders, he heard an ethereal voice…and lifting his head he saw it: a ghostly image of his father shimmering before him, the familiar red hair and beard fluttering as if blown by an invisible wind. And the spirit of the father spoke to the son.

“Dear boy, what is it you seek?” Voldar asked, his voice echoing as if traveling from a faraway place.

“Father…?” said Dane, transfixed. “Where are you?”

“I'm in Valhalla,” Voldar shot back. “Where else would I be?”

“What's it like up there?”

“It's a dream. The weather's pleasant, the food flavor-some and plentiful. There's all the mead you can drink and, well, other amenities I shan't go into now. Did you have a question?”

Dane hesitated, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“Father…am I fated to be destroyed by Thidrek?”

“Nothing is written until it is done, son. A man can fool his fate.”

“That's what Lut told me! So it's true?”

“Yes, it's one of the many truths revealed to me up here. Also, that fruits will keep longer if left to ripen in a cool, dark place. But as to the problem at hand, know this: Your destiny is yours to make. He who fights blindly will be
defeated. Be brave, but most of all, be wise. Then you will be worthy of winning back the Shield.”

“And if I fail…?”

His father's brow furrowed. “Then you will die a gruesome death, your body hacked to pieces and fed to the dogs, your severed head mounted on a pike for all to see, a rotting, miserable, humiliated failure—”

“O-
kay
, I get it! Thank you, Father.”

“Well, you asked….” Voldar's image began to shimmer and fade away. Dane called out to him one last time.

“Father, wait! There's something else!”

“
What
? You want to tell me that you miss me terribly and realize now how wise and loving I was and how much you wish you appreciated me more while I was alive? And that you feel responsible for my death and want to ask my forgiveness and hope there's no hard feelings? And hope we can talk like this again sometime?”

Dane was dumbfounded. “How—how did you know?”

“I know everything, son. And I know that when the time comes, you'll be every bit as brave as I was—maybe even braver….”

Now his father's image faded more and moved farther away. And Dane finally found the courage to tell his father the deepest secret of his heart.

“Father…I love you….”

“I love you too…,” came the reply, and Dane watched in bittersweet joy as the old man's hair and beard turned into wisps of smoke that dissipated into nothing and his
eyes receded into the blackness of the sky, becoming two tiny points of light that merged into stars….

Dane lifted his head with a start and looked around. The pearl-gray light of dawn was peeking through the window. He heard the early birdsong in the trees beyond the castle wall. Had he fallen asleep after all? Had it been real or only a dream? Soon it would be morning, perhaps the morning of the last day he would walk the earth. But strangely, he felt happy, abuzz with vigor and confidence. He drew out the silver Thor's Hammer locket he'd carried for luck, the one intended for Astrid. Even if he had only a few hours to live, there was a chance he'd see Astrid one more time before he died, and this thought further lifted his heart.

At that moment he heard a familiar
crawk!
and was delighted to see an old friend fly down and land on the windowsill.

“Klint! It's you!” The bird's amazing ability to track prey had also allowed him to relocate his long-lost master.

Again the bird squawked, and let drop something from his beak into Dane's palm. Nuts and berries the bird had gathered for his friend. Then Dane saw, out on the window ledge, a pile of berries the bird must've brought while he'd been sleeping.

“Hey, boy,” he murmured to the bird. Dane ate one of the berries and set them aside for the others when they awoke. He stroked the bird's glossy feathers. The sight and feel of the bird so close made Dane yearn again for the
comforts of home, for the familiar feel of his own straw-soft bed, the taste of his mother's venison stews, and the bright laughter of the village children at play.

The raven cocked his head and looked at Dane, then at the bars. It seemed to Dane that the bird understood his master was in dire straits.

“Good to see you, my friend,” Dane said, allowing the bird to perch on his outstretched finger. “But I'm afraid there's nothing you can do. Not unless you've a key to this dungeon. All the same, it's good to be together again.”

Behind him, the men began to awaken, and seeing the bird, one by one they came to the window, Drott and Vik and Rik and Fulnir, each reaching through the bars to touch and talk to the raven. They, too, had known the bird since boyhood and looked upon him with the same affection Dane did.

“Eh, Klinty,” said Vik, always entertaining thoughts of violence, “why don't you fly down and peck Thidrek's eyes out?”

“And after that,” said Rik, not to be outdone, “you can tear his ears off and shove 'em down his throat!”

Klint squawked in reply, as if he understood just what had been said, and the men laughed, cheered by it all. Then Klint flew down into the trees and returned momentarily, his beak full of more berries and nuts, which he deposited on the sill.

“Hey, he's delivering food!” said Drott, eagerly grabbing
and gobbling up a berry. “Klint—gimme a mixed codfish platter and a tankard of your finest ale!” It was silly—like most of the half-formed notions Drott blurted out—but it gave Dane an idea. If the bird could deliver berries, maybe, just maybe…

With the others busy divvying up the food morsels, Dane gently took hold of the bird and began to whisper in his ear. He drew something from his tunic and, opening his palm, displayed it to the bird. Klint cocked his head and took interest. Then, taking the item up in his beak, the raven gave a
screek! scrawk!
, hopped off the ledge, and flapped away, swooping out over the courtyard and the castle walls, heading northward, soon disappearing from view over the ramparts. Dane lost sight of him a moment later and turned back to the men, who sat eating the tidbits Klint had brought them. It was a long shot, he knew, but maybe, just maybe the bird could fetch more than nuts and berries.

 

In her cell in the tower Astrid lay curled in the corner, too tired to weep. Her attempt to kill Thidrek having failed, she, too, had lost hope. She'd fallen asleep and dreamed of her father and mother and a snowball fight she once had as a little girl. Then, from down in the courtyard, she heard the faint squawk of a bird. She could have sworn—quickly she went to her window and looked down. No bird in sight. Strange. For a moment it had sounded like the familiar call of Dane's own Klint, the bird that
he'd had since he was a boy. And then she saw workmen with axes and hammers, building a platform. This could mean only one thing. A beheading or a wedding. Or both.

 

Blackhelmet and Redhelmet stood atop the ramparts, gazing down into the courtyard and out over the castle walls to the valley below, ever watchful for the slightest movement. They held their bows at the ready. They'd been awake all night, doing the usual midnight-to-eight o'clock shift. They were tired and bored and looking for something to occupy their weary minds. Blackhelmet saw it first. A bird, it was, a large black raven, and it swooped down into the courtyard, making a long, looping figure eight. For some reason it seemed like an interloper.

“A silver piece says I hit him,” said Blackhelmet to his cohort.

“What? The bird?” said Redhelmet, scoffing. “Five says you don't.”

“Make it ten and I'll snag him in one shot.”

“You're on.”

Blackhelmet drew back his bow, sighting down the arrow at the black bird, following its line of flight as it soared over the wall and out toward the valley. Blackhelmet waited for his moment, then let the arrow fly.
Bzing!
It hit the bird's wing, slicing through its feathers and out the other side. The bird dropped like a stone.

Blackhelmet said nothing. Redhelmet dug in his coin
purse and counted ten pieces of silver into his cohort's hand. He hated to lose, but at least they'd killed something on their watch that night, and he could sign out with a feeling of accomplishment, no matter how small.

T
hidrek's men had spread the word, and duly terrified of being thought disobedient, all the Norsefolk from the surrounding villages came in droves to witness the event. Shortly after dawn peasants began to appear along the roadsides leading to the castle, children in tow, oxcarts laden with food. By noon the courtyard was jammed to the ramparts with onlookers, anxiously awaiting the festivities.

The day was to start with several beheadings, the royal pronouncement had promised, and then Thidrek's wedding, followed by a grand feast and, if Thidrek's mood permitted, dancing. Some came for the food, some for the pomp and circumstance of a royal betrothal. But mostly, Thidrek believed, it was the executions that really packed them in. “There's something about the spray of blood and the sobbing of women,” he'd say,
“that grabs 'em like nothing else.”

Grelf, being intimately acquainted with the ways of commonfolk, knew only too well the real reason they came. They were scared stiff he'd execute
them
if they didn't show up. But Grelf, who wanted to preserve both his job
and
his life, never burst his master's bubble. He told Thidrek exactly what he wanted to hear and carried out his orders with dashing alacrity.

Except for the order to execute Astrid. Yes, Thidrek had been so angered and humiliated by her betrayal, he'd ordered that she be beheaded and that her head and torso be impaled on a pike and displayed along the battlements with all the others who'd talked back or somehow displeased him. But Grelf had thought this politically unwise, and after some discussion he'd convinced Thidrek to go ahead and marry her anyway. Despite her little assassination attempt.

“But she's a common strumpet!” Thidrek had barked. “A guttersnipe!”

“Exactly,” Grelf had purred. “A commoner. And what better way to show the people you are
of
the people and
for
the people than by marrying one of them? Very good for the image, sire. And though this Astrid may be of common blood, she is of
un
common beauty. And that, too, reflects well upon you. It never hurts to woo and win the fairest lady in the land. Shows you're top of the heap. Makes men respect you and womenfolk swoon. Need I say more?” And then to cinch it, he unrolled the poster he'd
had painted. It was dominated by the daunting visage of Prince Thidrek, the very picture of imperious power, and above that, painted in large dark letters, the words
TEN BEHEADINGS AND A WEDDING
.

“Well, sire? What say you? Does it…please you?”

Thidrek looked at his image on the poster, then bemusedly at the words above it. He smiled. “‘Ten Beheadings and a Wedding.' Not bad, Grelfie, not bad at all.”

 

A few hours later, Thidrek stood in his chamber, admiring his image in the mirror, quite liking the figure he cut in his grand black satin cloak and waxed mustache. Grelf the Gratuitous stood beside him, issuing gushes of praise and approval, making sure that his lordship was feeling as invulnerable as possible.

On a day like this, with so many beheadings on the docket, even a smidge of insecurity could be deadly, and Grelf had to be careful. He'd seen Thidrek at executions before and knew only too well the intoxicating effect they could have on him. He could get so swept up in the excitement, he would order the execution of any old lackey he'd taken a momentary dislike to, just for the sport of it. Grelf was too smart to let that happen to him.

“If I may say, sire, Your Lordship has never looked better. There's not a man in the land more in command of his masculinity than you, sir. You positively reek of class, culture and—if I may say—cunning, sir. A fearless cunning that puts you in a category far above the rest.”

“Bootlicker,” said Thidrek with a smirk, unable to take his eyes off his image in the mirror. Grelf began backtracking.

“I—I was being totally truthful, sir—” Grelf sputtered. “I meant every word—”

“Well, don't stop then! Get toadying with all due dispatch! Fawning sycophancy is what I live for, Grelf. You of all people should know that by now. I positively thrive on it. It's the air I breathe, the water I drink, the chariot I ride. And you're Grelf the Gratuitous! The best bootlicker in the land! So c'mon!”

“Yes, yes, of course, sir. You—you radiate a kind of animal magnetism, an attraction like no other. Indeed, you give off an—an aura of perfection that is almost godlike.” He caught himself. “Did I say ‘almost'? It
is
godlike, it absolutely is. Your aura. You, sir, are a paragon of perfection unparalleled on this plane of existence.” Grelf stopped to take a breath, hoping he hadn't overplayed his hand.

Thidrek turned to face Grelf, eyed him for a moment, then gave him an affectionate pat on the cheek. “Oh, Grelfie, what would I do without you?” Thidrek swept out of the room, Grelf feeling that, for now, he still had job security.

 

The boy carried the basket down the winding stairs, watching the rats scurry off into the darkness. The deeper he went, the colder the air grew, and a dank odor penetrated his nose. He noticed dark stains from the moisture that
seeped through the ancient stone walls, as if the stones themselves were weeping. He, on the other hand, had nothing to be sad about, if he actually ever stopped to think long enough to be sad. He had long ago stopped reflecting on much of anything, for reflection gave way to troubled dreams.

When the boy reached the dungeon, the guard stepped aside, letting him walk right up to the bars and look in. The men inside, the ones he knew would that day die, were oddly cheerful for those so soon to meet their doom.

A sturdy young man came to the bars, anxious to talk. He had red hair and a broad smile. Recognizing him as the one he had shot with his arrow just days before, the boy busied himself with opening the basket and said nothing, having learned from Thidrek that it was best a boy speak only when commanded to by his lord and master. He reached into the basket and began throwing the tunics in through the bars.

“What's this?” the young redhead said. “We gotta wear uniforms?”

“Lord Thidrek likes victims to wear clean shirts. Blood spatter looks better on white.” He began passing them inside, while the young man continued to stare.

“Well, 'tis a good day to die,” said the redhead.

“You should be dead already,” said the boy, with an edge of irritation.

“Oh, yeah,” said the red-haired one after eyeing him more closely. “You're the one who shot the arrow, eh?
Glad your aim wasn't true.”

And now, with his marksmanship impugned, the boy was compelled to speak. “If I'd wanted you dead, you wouldn't be here.”

 

Dane had an impulse to chastise the boy for being a braggart, but realized that, perhaps, the boy had deliberately wounded him, had let him live, and so must be somewhat sympathetic to his plight.

Dane smiled, studying the boy's features. The freckles. The soft sandy hair. What was he? Nine, ten years of age at most? What was
he
doing with trash like Thidrek? Had he no family? In a flash Dane saw it on the boy's face, the conflicted expression in the eyes, the mouth that needed to speak. Dane took a chance.

“Lost your parents, huh? Must be hard.” The look on the boy's face when he met Dane's eyes told him all that he needed to know, and Dane continued as if his life depended on it—because it did.

“I lost my father, too,” Dane said. “Thidrek, the dastard, did the deed himself. Got him in the back, he did, coward that he is. And every night I dream of revenge. To end his life with my own hand. The only way I'll be at peace. But I can't kill him if he kills me first. And killing him wouldn't just bring
me
peace—it'd free all the other people he's enslaved. Even you, boy. Even you.” Dane paused. The boy's eyes were fastened on his.

“But Thidrek has given me a home,” he said, his jaw
trembling. “He has fed me. Clothed me. He has promised that one day I shall ride beside him in battle!”

“Is that what you wish?” Dane asked “To serve a tyrant who rules through fear and cruelty? You could have killed me, but you didn't. And that tells me there's good in your soul yet, that you'd rather fight evil than ride with it.” The boy was silent, thinking about Dane's words. He turned to go, then looked back.

“Them dreams you talk of? I have 'em too.”

“My name's Dane. Dane the Defiant.”

The boy looked at him a moment, making a decision. “Mine's William,” he said.

“No nickname?”

The boy shook his head.

“How does William the Brave sound?” Dane asked.

The boy seemed about to smile but abruptly turned and strode away. Dane listened to the boy's footsteps on the stone stairs, knowing now that he'd been right about the boy, that the boy hated Thidrek as much as he did for just the reason he'd surmised. But would the boy actually
do
anything about it?

Dane then heard a murmur of voices and turned to see Ulf the Whale and Fulnir helping Lut the Bent get to his feet. Though pale and weak and barely able to stand, Lut seemed determined to make a speech to the men, and they respectfully gathered round the old one, waiting for him to speak.

Lut cleared his throat and, in a cracked whisper of a voice,
said, “On this, likely our last day alive, I am glad hearted…for I feel privileged to have known you men…and knowing you as I do, I have come to regard you all as sons of Thor…. Though not godly in flesh, in your hearts you have lived fully and bravely. You have loved well and fought for the love of your kinsmen…and in my eyes, that makes you as fine and good as the gods above. Yes, you are all sons of Thor, and my heart swells with pride to have seen the starlight in your eyes and to have walked among you, lo these many winters….”

After a long and powerful silence, a hand was raised. It was Drott's, once wise and now dim again.

“Uh, Lut, quick question. Did you mean everyone?” Drott asked. “I mean…am
I
one too?”

“Yes, my son…” came the old one's reply, “even you.”

And Drott's smile beamed the brightest of all.